


Pearls

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Beads, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seaside, seaside holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11892777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: On seaside holiday, Holmes and Watson experiment with anal beads. ACD. PWP.





	Pearls

**Author's Note:**

> This is in the same universe as [A Man’s Castle is Where His Heart Is](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11550711/chapters/26575614) and [The Naughty Holiday Bucket](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11550711/chapters/26816343).

You dressed in darkness. I listened and feigned sleep so well that the thud of the front door of the bungalow did, in fact, startled me from half-slumber.

You were gone. You would return.

A certain article would not.

Would you tie it to a stone and drop it off a pier? Bury it in the sand? Fix it to the anchor of a departing boat?

I passed no judgment, for I understood.

I, too, cannot resist the occasional and impractical touch of the dramatic. That you get your inspiration from lurid prose rather than the theatre, that you choose to perform silently in small hours just before dawn, and I prefer a select, but rapt audience, are but thin, inconsequential differences.

I waited until I slept.

* * *

“Holmes would you mind terribly if this were a singular experiment?”

Relief washed over me. It was the most coherent statement you’d made since we’d begun. My Boswell had been blurred, bent, but not broken.

“Not at all,” I said, tightening my grip ‘round you. “Its conditions are unique; any attempt at replication would be foolhardy as well as unserviceable.”

We were a mess.

Warm sweat turned cold. Cold unguent turned warm, then cold again.

Tears. Spit. Stench.

But, most disquieting, the shaking.

I stilled myself by force of mind, imagining my body to be the hollowed trunk of a century-old oak in which your timid, storm-shocked woodland creature had taken shelter.

Except this storm raged within.

And I was its provocateur.

“I love you, Holmes; love you; love you; love.”

You clung and babbled, face pressed to the base of my neck, and in that moment, I wished for paper and charcoal to trace the pattern of breath and limp moustache, that I might ask that clever artist at the bath on Jermyn Street to ink it onto my skin permanently as talisman, token, gift.

“I’m yours, my dear Watson. And apologies, I’d no idea that a simple strand of beads would be so affecting.”

* * *

“Is it any wonder I go on about your hands in print?”

“And that’s only the preparation,” I teased as I withdrew two fingers from your well-stretched hole and wiped them on the linen laid out for that precise purpose.

“I know. If I hadn’t this bloody ring ‘round my rosy, I’d have spent myself twice over.”

“Nonsense, why only night before last you showed remarkable stamina.”

“That’s because _you_ were tied to the bedposts.” You laughed, then sighed. “This holiday, Holmes. It’s as if there are two.”

I was forced to agree. Our days were filled with pleasant walks along the shore and hunts for interesting-looking shells, building sandcastles and waving to fishermen, plying the latter with top-shelf spirits for their stories and their knowledge of tides. Sampling local delicacies. Marveling at sunrises and sunsets.

But between those marvelous sunsets and sunrises, we partook of a species of hedonism that prim and proper, cramped and crowded life in London would never allow.

I pushed three fingers into you. You shook your head and said,

“Pearls.”

I removed my fingers and reached for the beads.

The first slipped in easily.

There were five on the strand, each slightly larger in diameter than the former. In colour, they closely resembled the black pearl of the Borgias, that cursed gem that I’d retrieved from the shattered remains of the bust of Napoleon at the dramatic conclusion to a case.

The colour had first caught my eye. The other feature of interest was the fish, a silver charm which hung by its gaping mouth to the ring at the base of the strand.

Perfect, I’d thought, for a seaside holiday.

“Another?” I asked.

You nodded.

The second bead slid inside you just as easily.

I’d surprised you with an assortment of choice goods stashed in your suitcase. We’d tried them all, with differing results. One had produced a session of good hearty laughter which had distilled into ungentlemanly giggling, to my ears, sounds just as lovely as the wanton moans and pleading cries elicited by the other items in our naughty holiday bucket.

You’d said nothing about the beads, eyeing them with equal parts wariness and curiosity and always choosing something else when given the opportunity, but tonight, the last night of our stay, over dinner, you’d remarked, apropos of absolutely nothing,

“I’d like to take a look at that pearl necklace, tonight, Holmes.”

“Certainly.”

And that was that.

You preferred theoretical penetration, the idea of it, the suggestion of it, the whispered ghost of it, to the real thing, but nevertheless, you were arching your back and your hole was dribbling filthy drool as it clenched and unclenched, not unlike the little silver fish’s gaping mouth, around the strand.

You lay on your side, leg bent at the knee and supported by a mound of pillows.

“The next one, may be—“ I began.

You reached an arm back. I clasped your hand and squeezed it hard. You squeezed back, such a raw gesture of trust, that heart and lungs were gripped more fiercely than fingers could ever be.

I could not finish my sentence.

“Get on with it,” you urged in broken grunts.

“Yes, sir,” I whispered and released your hand, for I needed both of mine to hold, to guide, to press, and to massage the stubborn ring of muscle as it was breeched.

“Oh, Mary,” you sighed. Whether you were calling out the mother of your Lord or your late wife, I do not know.

I never ask.

You panted open-mouthed. “Sweet, sweet, Holmes, strange, too. Things…I…let…do…you…me.”

“A thought that’s a frequent guest in the chateau of my own mind, my dear Watson. It’s beautiful, watching them disappear inside you, watching your gorgeous hole wink and weep.”

I listened to your breath, harsh, erratic, then steadier, the latter being the product, I imagine, of Herculean attempts to calm yourself, body and mind, at the invasion.

“Full. ‘ungry. ‘Nother?”

“Of course. There are two more,” I reminded you.

“Gentle, p’ease.”

I huffed. “As if I’d be anything else.”

I almost gave up at the fourth one. Your body didn’t not seem to want it.

I slicked. I pushed. I teased.

You moaned. You trembled. You gripped the sheet.

“Watson…”

“Y-y-yours, to be u-u-used,” you said in a hoarse voice. “W-w-woo me.”

My world tilted.

I’ve made and witnessed thousands of discoveries in my time, but the ones you conduct are the ones I remember most. I schooled my voice to that of the love-struck lover I was, am, ever will be.

“Take them, my queen, take these gems inside you. They are priceless, you are priceless, together you are treasure beyond measurement, beyond calculation. They want to be part of you, they want to stretch you, to fill you, to bring you pleasure beyond—“

“Oh, God! Oh, god, oh, god, oh god…”

I watched the fourth bead disappear.

“Let it go.”

I did not understand you, then you batted a hand clumsily between your legs.

“Not until you’re full, my queen, not until your crowned.”

I kissed the nape of your neck and your shoulders, then murmured a litany of tender endearments as I pushed the last of the beads inside you.

I uncurled my fingers from the base ring and watched the little fish swing, dangling on the hook.

The noises you made were glorious and unprecedented in our association: high-pitched whimpers, kittenish mewls, guttural snorts that might have been my name or curses in fantastic tongues.

You dripped, slick, tears, sweat, and keened into the bedding.

My hand brushed my face, and I started at the observation that my own skin was as damp as yours.

I covered your body with my own, putting my weight on my own limbs, touching, but not resting upon you.

“I adore you, my queen, and I am yours to command in any era, to any task, at any cost to myself or to the world.”

I released the fastening ‘round your prick. Then I put my hand on your belly.

And rubbed.

You screamed.

And not for the first time in the last ten days, I was consummately grateful at my own foresight in selecting so isolated bungalow.

You came.

Loudly. Longly. Strongly.

“I’m going to take them out,” I said quickly.

But before I could even grasp the base-ring, you were turning into me and wailing.

You, lover and friend, soldier, doctor, scribe, companion, were coming apart in my arms, shattering, if you will, like a bust of Napoleon. I held you tight and felt the shame at the role I’d played in reducing you to this state of shivering, sweating, tangle of limbs.

Careless, reckless.

But they were still inside you.

“Watson!”

It was the voice I might have used on a case, to get your attention, to warn you, to bid you halt or go.

And it worked.

You quieted long enough for my hand to locate the ring.

And pull.

Your body tensed. Your bottom lip disappeared between your teeth so you would not call out in discomfort, oh, let’s don’t be coy, in pain.

I tossed the strand aside and pulled you closer. Your hands traveled to my hair, and I felt the sting of where your nails had been.

Perhaps you’d drawn blood.

Good.

There’d not be scars, there might not even be marks for long, more’s the pity, I’d have to investigate later.

There ought to be scars, no, etchings, no, engravings, like on a monument to calamity or a trophy of dubious merit.

I looked ‘round us, taking in the full measure of the mess, contemplating the probability that you would sleep, right there in my arms, when you spoke,

“Holmes would you mind terribly if this were a singular experiment?”

* * *

“That’s the lot?” asked the driver when the last of the trunks was loaded.

“Yes,” I said. Then I turned and called, “Watson, you chariot awaits!”

You came running with the waves and the sand and the gulls and the bathers behind you.

“At the first lungful of yellow fog, I shall grieve the loss of this fine sea air,” you said, smiling.

I nodded.

Suddenly there was a squeal.

You turned your head, frowning and shielding your eyes with your hand.

“Mummy!” a young girl cried, rushing towards a figure hidden behind a large umbrella. “Look what I found! A pearl necklace! It was tied to a rock! Look at the little fish at the end; it must be a mermaid’s! Oh, may I keep it, Mummy, please!”

Your eyes widened in horror. Then you barked,

“London!”

“London!” I agreed with equal violence.

“London!” echoed the driver, with a snap of reins.

And away we flew, like swine leaving the pearls cast, well, behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
